


Muse de mon Coeur

by ghostburr



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>me and elizajumel wrote this like 3 years ago after too much baudelaire and a desperate lack of prohibition-era hamburrger aus</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse de mon Coeur

 

“Are you here on business, or pleasure?”

“Neither,” Alexander says firmly. “I lent you a volume of Baudelaire two months ago, and I was hoping to have it back sometime within the decade.”

The black-eyed gaze flashes over the salon, flooded in shimmering skirts and lush music. “This isn’t really a good time for me, angel.”

Alexander scoffs. “Enjoy yourself, then. Return the volume when you see fit.”

“Not going to stay for the party?” Aaron tilts his head, feigning hurt. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s raucous and uncouth, for starters. Not to mention  _illegal.”_  The angel shifts out of the way as a tittering young couple stumbles into him and wanders off. “How did you even acquire so much—?”

The demon looks all too pleased with himself. “Water into wine, and all that. Classic.”

“Blasphemous,” Alexander mutters. “You know the prohibition laws.“

Aaron rolls his eyes, snatching a flute from a passing server and thrusting it into his guest’s reluctant hand.

“Don’t kid yourself, Alexander. You know as well as I that alcohol has been circulating under—indeed, right before—the government’s nose, for years now.”  
He smiles widely, tapping his glass. “In fact, wine has often managed to evade the law under the guise of having sacramental purposes. I believe that is what they call irony.”

Alexander’s stiff grip on the glass tightens, as do the lines around the azure eyes. He turns brusquely for the door, and jerks away when Aaron’s wrist closes around his forearm. Wine splashes over their hands. Flustered, Alexander places the flute on a nearby table.

Purposely locking eyes with the angel, Aaron slides his grip from forearm to fingers, intertwining his with Alexander’s and lifting them to his mouth to kiss the warm, wine-soaked skin.

“Really,” Alexander hisses. “Must you turn every gesture into a display of lechery?”

“I only intended to convey a proper goodbye.” Aaron turns over the hand in his, examining its freckled surface. “You could have let go by now.”

His guest does, flushing as he turns to leave.

“Wait,” says Aaron, catching him by the shoulder. “I will return your book. Demon of my word, and all.”

“I was not under the impression that your word was good for much.”

“Let me prove myself to you. My library is upstairs.”

Alexander acquiesces, allowing himself to be led through the glittering crowd to the quieter second floor. With grudging appreciation he takes in the gilded walls hung with celebrated paintings. The demon silently pushes open a door.

Mystified, Alexander enters. “You have a bed in your library?”

“No,” Aaron says, and kisses him.

The angel gasps as his back slams against the wall and precise fingers begin working on the buttons of his suit.

“You said the book was in your library.”

“I said my library was upstairs. I kept this particular book in the bedroom.”

“Demon of your word,” Alexander mutters. 

His host laughs, low and silky in his ear. “You should not have been so readily trusting of one you find so unprincipled.”

“This is ridiculous. Where is the book?”

“On the bedside table.”

Alexander closes his eyes as pale hands slide his suit from his shoulders. “I shall retrieve it and be on my way then.”

“Will you, now?” Aaron sounds amused, wrapping his fingers around Alexander’s satin tie.

“Yes.”

A light, swift tug on the tie, drawing a quiet moan. The two divine beings stand nose to nose; one with eyes shut, breathing heavily, the other smirking.  _“Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,”_  he murmurs, and bites the angel’s neck.

"Demon…” the angel responds in a warning tone. He sinks into the bite, finding his defenses falling.

“I can recite the whole thing, you know. I have it memorized. Every stanza”

Between words, Aaron nudges and kisses his companion’s neck, pressing him into the wall, searching him with his warm, pale hands. Alexander places a hand on each of the shoulders in front of him.

“Then why did you need to borrow it? What purpose?”

“To see if you marked anything. Made notes.” A dark smile met the angel’s gaze and set his insides on fire. Had he made notes? He couldn’t, at the moment, recall. The figure in front of him moved in for a second kiss and resumed his poetry.

_“Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées…Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées…”_

“…And did you have an ember to warm your cold feet?” The angel interrupted, whispering, remembering the next line of the poem in English. 

“You know very well I didn’t,” Aaron locked eyes with the angel’s brilliant blue ones, “Those January winds tore me to the bone.”

Alexander shut his eyes and sighed. “This, again. Always back to this.”

“Those four years nearly killed me, angel. Baudelaire is one of mine. I gave him those lines, in between whore houses and Absinthe-induced hazes. His words are my experience. Meaning they are you.”

Beneath them, the party raged on, unaware that the two celestial beings had disappeared. They wouldn’t be missed. The alcohol that flowed, far from being the watered-down, saintly versions offered in Catholic mass, was home-brewed and vicious. Shrieking female laughter filled the downstairs corridor; a band played an inarticulate tune powered entirely by liquor and spirits. Alexander stared the demon down.

“You used him. You made him into a tragedy to sate your own loneliness–”

 _“–Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées?”_ Aaron responded softly, his hooded eyes half closing, reminiscing. At the mention of shoulders, he brought his mouth the the referenced body party, lips barely grazing the faint freckles. “Your freckles. it was always your freckles.”

A shuddering breath escaped the angel as he felt himself grow weak. 

_“Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?”_

“Nocturnal beams that pass through the shutters…" Alexander muttered, grinding his waste into the demon’s, ”…you speak of moonlight and desolation.“

Aaron continued his soft French, making a mental note of the scent on his angel’s skin.  _"Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais…”_

Alexander reached to his left and locked the door. "They will notice we are gone, demon.“

 _"Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes…”_  Aaron lifted his soft mouth from the spot on the angel’s shoulder and brought their forehead together, staring deeply into his eyes,  _“…azurées?”_

 _“Demon…”_ The angel repeated, swaying gently to the poem’s internal pendulum. Giving in, he wrapped a single arm around his companion’s trim waste, pressing himself ever closer. A charmed smile played on his pink lips. “I will of  _course_  harvest gold from the sky.”

Aaron dragged the tips of his fingers across the angel’s fluttering stomach. “Azure sky.”

“Azure sky.”

“I am taking you to bed, angel." 

Alexander’s laugh filled the small room. 

 _"II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir…Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,”_  Aaron purred, his own smile increasing. “Alter boy. My good little choir boy. To earn your bread–”

Alexander watched him, shared his breath in the half-inch between their mouths. Suprising himself he felt the next stanza on his tongue,  _“Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère…”_

“So you have memorized it.” The demon raised his eyebrows in appreciation. 

“That line is you, Colonel Burr. That line is purely you." At the military title, the demon laughed. Alexander pressed on, hushed, "I will make you sing Te Deums yet.”

In a slow, graceful movement, Aaron removed the angel’s tie and the remaining fabric between their skin and pressed into him, longing to feel a similar warmth. He breathed in again. Cinnamon and cloves filled his nostrils.

“I bet you will.”

“Tell me the rest.”

 _“Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas…"_ Aaron’s hot breath hit his neck; similarly hot hands found their way to the angel’s belt. With a slick slice, the leather slid out of the loops and fell with a slight jingle to the floor. Alexander’s breath hitched.

"Charlatan indeed,” he added in hushed tones, running his fingers over the buttons on his pants, wishing the demon would undress him further and take the burden of sin onto himself. 

As if reading his mind, Aaron gently removed the angel’s fingers from his buttons and undid them, sliding his hand into the waistband. Caressing every inch of warm skin he could feel, he resumed his French-peppered kisses. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, he found himself taking almost indiscernible steps backwards, towards the bed.

 _“Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas, Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.”_ The demon finished, his back hitting the sheets, his angel straddling him. 

“Vulgar…is that how you find this?”

“Not I, but Baudelaire.”

Alexander reached for the sheets, wrapping himself and the demon inside of them. “You said you told him the words. That he worshiped your kind.”

The demon removed his shirt quickly, not wanting to lose whatever mood had settled between them.

“There are times when lovemaking is vulgar,” Aaron looked up into the blue eyes and wondered if a vulgar thought had ever, in the eternity the two beings seemed to have spent together, crossed his mind. “There are times when lovemaking becomes meaningless. That is what he meant.”

The angle ran a hand through jet-black curls. “Give it meaning, then.”

A tune from downstairs was struck; laughter echoed around the notes as people linked arms and danced. Possibly fell in love. 

Aaron trailed his fingertips down the angel’s spine, relishing in the goosebumps he felt left in their wake. The angel above him kissed him hard, claiming him. His regal, auburn hair, tousled in the moonlight, stripped him of his usually princely poise.

_“Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais."_


End file.
